Chapter 38

We were both perplexed as to what would be the best course of action to take in regard to Miss Wynne--whether to let her see Sinfi or not, for evidently she was getting worse, the paroxysms were getting more frequent and more severe. They would come without any apparent disturbing cause whatever. Now that I had to connect her you had lost in Wales with the model, many things returned to me which I had previously forgotten, things which you had told me in London. I had quite lately learnt a good deal from Dr. Mivart, who formerly practised near the town in which you lived, but who now lives in London. He had been attending me for insomnia. While speculating as to what would be best to do, it occurred to me that I would write to Mivart, asking him to run down to me at Hurstcote Manor and consult with me, because he had told me that he had given attention to cases of hysteria. I did this, and persuaded Sinfi to remain and to keep out of Miss Wynne's sight. Although Sinfi was still as splendid a woman as ever, I noticed a change in her. Her animal spirits had fled, and she had to me the appearance of a woman in trouble; but what her trouble was I could not guess, and I cannot now guess. Perhaps she had been jilted by some Gypsy swain.

When Dr. Mivart came he was much startled at recognising in Miss Wynne his former patient of Raxton, whom he had attended on her first seizure. He said that it would now be of no use for me to write to you, as it was matter of common knowledge that you had gone to Japan. If it had not been for this I should have written to you at once. He took a very grave view of Miss Wynne's case, and said that her nervous system must shortly succumb to the terrible seizures. Sinfi Lovell was in the room at the time. I asked Dr. Mivart if there was any possible means of saving her life.

'None,' he said, 'or rather there is one which is unavailable.'

'And what is that?' I asked.

'They have a way at the Salpêtrière Hospital of curing cases of acute hysteria By transmitting the seizure to a healthy patient by means of a powerful magnet. My friend Marini, of that hospital, has had recently some extraordinary successes of this kind. Indeed, by a strange coincidence, as I was travelling here this morning I chanced to buy a _Daily Telegraph_, in which this paragraph struck my eye.'

Mivart then pointed out to me a letter from Paris in the _Daily Telegraph_, giving an account of certain proceedings at the Salpêtrière Hospital, and in the same paper there was a long leading article upon the subject. The report of the experiments was to me so amazing that at first I could not bring my mind to believe in it. As you will, I am sure, feel some incredulity, I have cut out the paragraph, and here it is pasted at the bottom of this page:--

'The chief French surgeons and medical professors have, for some time, been carefully studying the effect of mesmerism on the female patients of the Salpêtrière Hospital, and M. Marini, a clinical surgeon of that establishment, has just effected a series of experiments, the results of which would seem to open up a new field for medical science. M. Marini tried to prove that certain hysterical symptoms could be transferred by the aid of the magnet from one patient to another. He took two subjects: one a dumb woman afflicted with hysteria, and the other a female who was in a state of hypnotic trance. A screen was placed between the two, and the hysterical woman was then put under the influence of a strong magnet. After a few moments she was rendered dumb, while speech was suddenly restored to the other. Luckily for his healthier patients, however, their borrowed pains and symptoms did not last long.'

And Mivart was able to give me some more extraordinary instances of the transmission of hysterical seizures from one patient to another--instances where permanent cures were effected. [Footnote] Naturally I asked Mivart what befell the new victims of the seizures.

[Footnote: The transmissions here alluded to were mostly effected by M. Babinski of the Salpêtrière. They excited great attention in Paris.]

'That depends,' said Mivart, 'upon three circumstances--the acuteness of the seizure, the strength of the recipient's nervous system, and the kind of imagination she has. In all Marini's experiments the new patient has quickly recovered, and the original patient has remained entirely cured and often entirely unconscious that she has ever suffered from the paroxysms at all.'

Mivart went on to say that the case of Miss Wynne was so severe a one that if the new patient's imagination were very strong the risk to her would be exceptionally great.

At the end of this discussion Mivart directed my attention to Sinfi Lovell. She sat as though listening to some voice. Her head was bent forward, her lips were parted, and her eyes were closed. Then I heard her say in a loud whisper, 'Yis, mammy dear, little Sinfi's a-listenin'. Yis, this is the way to make her dukkeripen come true, and then mine can't. Yis, this is the very way. They shall meet again by Knockers' Llyn, where I seed the Golden Hand, and arter that, never shall little Sinfi go agin you, dear. And never no more shall any one on 'em, Gorgio or Gorgie, bring their gries and their beautiful livin'-waggins among tents o' ourn. Never no more shall they jine our breed--never no more, never no more. And then my dukkeripen _can't_ come true.'

Then, springing up, she said, 'I'll stand the risk anyhow. You may pass the cuss on to me if you can.'

'The seizure has nothing to do with any curse,' said Mivart, 'but if you think it has, you are the last person to whom it should be transmitted.'

'Oh, never fear,' said Sinfi; 'Gorgio cuss can't touch Romany. But if you find you can pass the cuss on to me, I'll stand the cuss all the same.'

I always admired this noble girl very much, and I pointed out to her the danger of the experiment to one of her temperament, but assured her the superstition about the Gorgio curse was entirely an idle one.

'Danger or no danger,' she said, 'I'll chance it; I'll chance it.'

'It might be the death of you,' I said, 'if you believe that the seizure is a curse.'

'Death!' she murmured, with a smile. 'It ain't death as is likely to scare a Romany chi, 'specially if she happens to want to die;' and then she said aloud, 'I tell you I mean to chance it, but I think my dear old daddy ought to know about it. So if you'll jist write to him at Gypsy Dell, by Rington, and ask him to come and see me here, I'm right well sure he'll come and see me at wonst. He can't read the letter hisself, of course, but the Scollard can, and so can Rhona Boswell. One on 'em will read it to him, and I know he'll come at wonst. I shouldn't like to run such a risk without my dear blessed old daddy knowin' on it.'

It ended in Mivart's writing to Sinfi's father, and Panuel Lovell turned up the next evening in a great state of alarm as to what he was wanted for. Panuel's opposition to the scheme was so strong that I refused to urge the point.

It was a very touching scene between him and Sinfi.

'You know what your mammy told you about you and the Gorgios,' said he, with tears trickling down his cheeks. 'You know the dukkeripen said as you wur to beware o' Gorgios, because a Gorgio would come to the Kaulo Camloes as would break your heart.'

She looked at her father for a second, and then she broke into a passion of tears, and threw herself upon the old man's neck, and I _thought_ I heard her murmur, 'It's broke a'ready, daddy.' But I really am not quite sure that she did not say the opposite of this.

I had no idea before how strong the family ties are between the Gypsies. It seems to me that they are stronger than with us, and I was really astonished that Sinfi could, in order to be of service to two people of another race, resist the old Gypsy's appeal. She did, however, and it was decided that at the next seizure the experiment should be made, and Dr. Mivart telegraphed to London for his assistant to bring one of Marini's magnets.

We had not long to wait, for the very next day, just as Mivart was preparing to leave for London, Miss Wynne was seized by another paroxysm. It was more severe than any previous one--so severe, indeed, that it seemed to me that it must be the last.

It was with great reluctance that Mivart consented to use Sinfi as the recipient of the seizure, because of her belief that it was the result of a curse. However, he at last consented, and ordered two couches to be placed side by side with a large magnet between them. Then Miss Wynne was laid on one couch, and Sinfi Lovell on the other; a screen was placed between the couches, and then the wonderful effect of the magnetism began to show itself.

The transmission was entirely successful, and Miss Wynne awoke as from a trance, and I saw as it were the beautiful eyes change as the soul returned to them. She was no longer the fascinating child who had become part of my life. She was another person, a stranger whose acquaintance I had now to make, and whose friendship I had yet to win. Indeed the change in the expression was so great that it was really difficult to believe that the features were the same. This was owing to the wonderful change in the eyes.

To Sinfi Lovell the seizure was transmitted in a way that was positively uncanny--she passed into a paroxysm so severe that Mivart was seriously alarmed for her. Her face assumed the same expression of terror which I had seen on Miss Wynne's face, and she uttered the cry, 'Father!' and then fell back into a state of rigidity.

'The transmission was just in time,' said Mivart; 'the other patient would never have survived this.'

Strong as Sinfi Lovell was, the effect of the transmission upon her nervous system was to me appalling. Indeed it was much greater, Mivart said, than he was prepared for. Poor Panuel Lovell kept gazing at us, and then said, 'It's cruel to let one woman kill herself for another; but when her as kills herself is a Romany, and t'other a Gorgie, it's what I calls a blazin' shame. She would do it, my poor chavi would do it. "No harm can't come on it," says she, "because a Gorgio cuss can't touch a Romany." An' now see what's come on it.'

Mivart would not hear of Sinfi's returning at present to the Gypsies, as she required special treatment. Hence there was no course left open to us but that of keeping her here attended by a nurse whom Mivart sent. While the recurrent paroxysms were severe, Sinfi was to be carefully kept apart from Miss Wynne until it should become quite clear how much and how little Miss Wynne remembered of her past life. Mivart, however, leaned to the opinion that nothing could recall to her mind the catastrophe that caused the seizure. By an unforeseen accident they met, and I was at first fearful of the consequences, but soon found that Mivart's theory was right. No ill effects whatever followed the meeting. Sinfi's transmitted paroxysms have gradually become less acute and less frequent, and Miss Wynne has been constantly with her and ministering to her; the affection between them seems to have been of long standing, and very great.

I found that Miss Wynne remembered all her past life down to her first seizure on Raxton sands, while everything that had since passed was a blank. Since her recovery her presence here has seemed to shed a richer sunlight over the old place, but of course she is no longer the fairy child who before her cure fascinated me more than any other living creature could have done.

Apart from her sweet companionship, she has been of great service to me in my art. When I learnt who she was, I should not have dreamed of asking her to sit to me as a model without having first taken your views, and you were, as I understood, abroad; but she herself generously volunteered to sit to me for a picture I had in my mind, 'The Spirit of Snowdon.' It was a failure, however, and I abandoned it. Afterwards, knowing that I was at my wits' end for a model in the painting I have been for a long time at work upon, 'Zenelophon,' she again offered to sit to me. The result has been that the picture, now near completion, is by far the best thing I have ever done.

I had noticed for some time that Sinfi's mind seemed to be running upon some project. Neither Miss Wynne nor I could guess what it was. But a few days ago she proposed that Miss Wynne and she should take a trip to North Wales in order to revisit the places endeared to them both by reminiscences of their childhood. Nothing seemed more natural than this. And Sinfi's noble self-sacrifice for Miss Wynne had entitled her to every consideration, and indeed every indulgence.

And yesterday they started for Wales. It was not till after they were gone that I learnt from another newspaper paragraph that you did not go to Japan, and are in Wales. And now I begin to suspect that Sinfi's determination to go to Wales with Miss Wynne arose from her having suddenly learnt that you are still there.

And now, my dear Alywin, having acted as a somewhat prosaic reporter of these wonderful events, I should like to conclude my letter with a word or two about what took place when I parted from you in the streets of London. I saw then that your sufferings had been very great, and since that time they must have been tenfold greater. And now I rejoice to think that, of all the men in this world who have ever loved, you, through this very suffering, have been the most fortunate. As Job's faith was tried by Heaven, so has your love been tried by the power which you call 'circumstance' and which Wilderspin calls 'the spiritual world.' All that death has to teach the mind and the heart of man you have learnt to the very full, and yet she you love is restored to you, and will soon be in your arms. I, alas! have long known that the tragedy of tragedies is the death of a beloved mistress, or a beloved wife. I have long known that it is as the King of Terrors that Death must needs come to any man who knows what the word 'love' really means. I have never been a reader of philosophy, but I understand that the philosophers of all countries have been preaching for ages upon ages about resignation to Death--about the final beneficence of Death--that 'reasonable moderator and equipoise of justice,' as Sir Thomas Browne calls him. Equipoise of justice indeed! He who can read with tolerance such words as these most have known nothing of the true passion of love for a woman as you and I understand it. The Elizabethans are full of this nonsense; but where does Shakespeare, with all his immense philosophical power, ever show this temper of acquiescence? All his impeachments of Death have the deep ring of personal feeling--dramatist though he was. But, what I am going to ask you is, How shall the modern materialist, who you think is to dominate the Twentieth Century and all the centuries to follow--how shall he confront Death when a beloved mistress is struck down? When Moschus lamented that the mallow, the anise, and the parsley had a fresh birth every year, whilst we men sleep in the hollow earth a long, unbounded, never-waking sleep, he told us what your modern materialist tells us, and he re-echoed the lamentation which, long before Greece had a literature at all, had been heard beneath Chaldean stars and along the mud-banks of the Nile. Your bitter experience made you ask materialism, What comfort is there in being told that death is the very nursery of new life, and that our heirs are our very selves, if when you take leave of her who was and is your world it is 'Vale, vale, in æternum vale'? The dogged resolution with which at first you fought and strove for materialism struck me greatly. It made you almost rude to me at our last meeting.

When I parted from you I should have been blind indeed had I failed to notice how scornfully you repudiated my suggestion that you should replace the amulet in the tomb from which it had been stolen. I did not then know that the tomb was your father's. Had I known it my suggestion would have been much more emphatic. I saw that you had the greatest difficulty in refraining from laughing in my face when I said to you that you would eventually replace it. Yes, you had great difficulty in refraining from laughing. I did not take offence. I felt sure that the cross was in some way connected with the young lady you had lost in Wales, but I could not guess how. Had you told me that the cross had been taken from your father's tomb I should no doubt have connected it with the cry of 'Father' which had, I knew, several times been uttered in Wilderspin's studio by the model in her paroxysms, and I should have earlier done what I was destined to do--I should earlier have brought you together. From sympathy that sprang from a deep experience I knew you better than you knew yourself. When I learnt from Sinfi Lovell that you had fulfilled my prophecy I did not laugh. Tears rather than laughter would have been more in my mood, for I realised the martyrdom you must have suffered before you were impelled to do it. I knew how you must have been driven by sorrow--driven against all the mental methods and traditions of your life--into the arms of supernaturalism. But you were simply doing what Hamlet would have done in such circumstances--what Macbeth would have done, and what he would have done who spoke to the human heart through their voices. All men, I believe, have Macbeth's instinct for making 'assurance doubly sure,' and I cannot imagine the man who, entangled as you were in a net of conflicting evidence--the evidence of the spiritual and the evidence of the natural world--would not, if the question were that of averting a curse from acting on a beloved mistress, have done as you did. That paralysis of Hamlet's will which followed when the evidence of two worlds hung in equipoise before him, no one can possibly understand better than I. For it was exactly similar to my own condition on that never-to-be-forgotten night when she whom I lost...

While the marvellous sight fell, or appeared to fall, upon my eyes, my blood, like Hamlet's, became so masterful that my reason seemed nothing but a blind and timorous guide. No sooner had the sweet vision fled than my reason, like Hamlet's, rose and rejected it. It was not until I became acquainted with the _rationale_ of sympathetic manifestations--it was not till I learnt, by means of that extraordinary book of your father's, which seems to have done its part in turning friend Wilderspin's head, what is the supposed method by which the spiritual world acts upon the material world--acts by the aid of those same natural bonds which keep the stars in their paths--that my blood and my reason became reconciled, and a new light came to me. And I knew that this would be your case. Yes, my dear Aylwin, I knew that when the issues of Life are greatly beyond the common, and when our hearts are torn as yours has been torn, and when our souls are on fire with a flame such as that which I saw was consuming you, the awful possibilities of this universe--of which we, civilised men or savage, know nothing--will come before us, and tease our hearts with strange wild hopes, 'though all the "proofs" of all the logicians should hold them up to scorn.'

I am, my dear Aylwin,

Your sincere Friend,

T. D'ARCY.

XVII

THE TWO DUKKERIPENS

Was the mystery at an end? Was there one point in this story of stories which this letter of D'Arcy's had not cleared up? Yes, indeed there was one. What motive--or rather, what mixture of motives--had impelled Sinfi to play her part in restoring Winifred to me? Her affection for me was, I knew, as strong as my own affection for her. But this I attributed largely to the mysterious movements of the blood of Fenella Stanley which we both shared. In many matters there was a kinship of taste between us, such as did not exist between me and Winnie, who was far from being scornful of conventions, and to whom the little Draconian laws of British 'Society' were not objects of mere amusement, as they were to me and Sinfi.

All this I attributed to that 'prepotency of transmission in descent' which I knew to be one of the Romany characteristics. All this I attributed, I say, to the far-reaching influence of Fenella Stanley.

But would this, coupled with her affection for Winifred, have been strong enough to conquer Sinfi's terror of a curse and its supposed power? And then that colloquy recorded by D'Arcy with what she believed to be her mother's spirit--those words about 'the two dukkeripens'--what did they mean? At one moment I seemed to guess their meaning in a dim way, and at the next they seemed more inexplicable than ever. But be their import what it might, one thing was quite certain--Sinfi had saved Winifred, and there swept through my very being a passion of gratitude to the girl who had acted so nobly which for the moment seemed to drown all other emotions. I had not much time, however, for bringing my thoughts to bear upon this new source of wonderment; for I suddenly saw Winifred and Sinfi descending the steep path towards me.

But what a change there was in Sinfi! The traces of illness had fled entirely from her face, and were replaced by the illumination of the triumphant soul within--a light such as I could imagine shining on the features of Boadicea fresh from a successful bout with the foe of her race. Even the loveliness of Winnie seemed for the moment to pale before the superb beauty of the Gypsy girl, whom the sun was caressing as though it loved her, shedding a radiance over her picturesque costume, and making the gold coins round her neck shine like dewy whin-flowers struck by the sunrise.

I understood well that expression of triumph. I knew that, with her, imagination was life itself. I knew that this imagination of hers had just escaped from the sting of the dominant thought which was threatening to turn a supposed curse into a curse indeed.

I went to meet them.

'I promised to bring her livin' mullo,' said Sinfi, 'and I have kept my word, and now we are all going up to the top together.'

Winnie at once proceeded to pack up the breakfast things in Sinfi's basket. While she was doing this Sinfi and I went to the side of the llyn.

'Sinfi, I know all--all you have done for Winnie, all you have done for me.'

'You know about me takin' the cuss?' she said in astonishment. 'Gorgio cuss can't touch Romany, they say, but it did touch me. I wur very bad, brother. Howsomedever, it's all gone now. But how did you come to know about it? Winnie don't know herself, so she couldn't ha' told you; and I promised Mr. D'Arcy that if ever I wur to see you anywheres I wouldn't talk about it--leaseways not till he could tell you hisself or write to you full.'

'Winnie does not know about it,' I said, 'but I do. I know that in order to save her life--in order to save us both--you allowed her illness to pass on to you, at your own peril. But you mustn't talk of its being a curse, Sinfi. It was just an illness like any other illness, and the doctor passed it on to you in the same way that doctors sometimes do pass on such illnesses. Doctors can't cure curses, you know. You will soon be quite well again, and then you will forget all about what you call the curse.'

'I'm well enough now, brother; but see, Winnie has packed the things, and she's waiting to go up.'

We then began the ascent.

Ah, that ascent! I wish I had time and space to describe it. Up the same path we went which Sinfi and I had followed on that memorable morning when my heart was as sad as it was buoyant now.

Reaching the top, we sat down in the hut and made our simple luncheon. Winnie was a great favourite with the people there, and she could not get away from them for a long time. We went down to Bwlch Glas, and there we stood gazing at the path that leads to Llanberis.